


Uitwaaien

by WritingQuill



Series: Meanings [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Middle-aged, Retreating to the countryside, Sexual Content, Smut, Weekend Away, countryside
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-29
Updated: 2013-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-27 08:59:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/660157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingQuill/pseuds/WritingQuill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(or A Weekend Away)</p><p>Uitwaaien (Dutch): to take a brief break in the countryside to clear one’s head</p><p>Middle-age, tired and a bit jaded, the boys retire for a holiday in the countryside and rekindle the romance a bit. </p><p>(first official try at smut so don't be too harsh on me!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Uitwaaien

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I'm not accustomed to writing smutty things, so I hope you'll forgive me for this feeble attempt. Also, it's very late and I'm trying really hard not to blush furiously as I think about what I have just written. Oh, boy. Thanks for reading!

**Uitwaaien** (Dutch): _to take a brief break in the countryside to clear one’s head_

***

This last case hadn’t brought the excitement they normally did. Dead children always made John feel worst about everything, and seeing those poor kids lying dead on the ground, blood on every possible surface of the room, he couldn’t help the nasty feeling settling at the bottom of his stomach, in his throat. A shadow was cast in his heart, he couldn’t breathe properly, his hand was shaking. John hated this. He hated to be helpless while trying to help. Those poor children. None of them had been older than seven. They had been missing for three days — the four of them were on a field trip with school and vanished out of thin air before the three designated teachers noticed — and were found in an abandoned flat in an old townhouse in Whitechapel when the next door neighbour’s dog began barking over the smell as he returned from a trip. The police had been called, and Lestrade contacted Sherlock immediately. Sherlock and John went and investigated. Overall, the case had been technically easy to solve, but the violence, the cruelty committed against those tiny, innocent little children was too much for John. And for Sherlock as well, apparently, since he still hadn’t shown any signs of his post-case glee as they walked to Baker Street. 

‘You okay?’ asked John, looking up at Sherlock, who was walking silently next to him. Sherlock glanced at him, then forward. He nodded curtly and John felt his heart clench. He squeezes Sherlock’s forearm slightly, making him turn. ‘Sherlock…’ 

‘What?’ he asked, avoiding John’s eyes. ‘I’m fine.’ 

‘No, you’re not. It’s okay not to be fine, you know. This case was too gruesome, even for you,’ John told him gently, rubbing soft circles on his arm over the coat sleeve. He then moved his hand downwards to take Sherlock’s in his. He intertwined their fingers. ‘I know you’re not as heartless as you claim, Sherlock… You can be real with me.’ 

Sherlock turned to face him and nodded once more, but more softly this time. He looked at their joined hands and sighed deeply, separating them so he could wrap his arms around John’s waist, burying his nose in John’s hair, inhaling deeply. 

‘I—‘ he tried to say, but somehow couldn’t. John smiled over his shoulder, and squeezed him tight with his arms. 

‘I know.’ 

‘I can’t delete them, John. Their… faces are burned behind my eyelids, every time I close my eyes, I see them and I can’t…’ 

John sighed and moved to press a gentle kiss under Sherlock’s jaw. ‘I think we need a break, love.’ 

Sherlock pulled away slightly. ‘Excuse me?’ 

‘A break. Holiday? We can’t keep going like this, not even you. Too many deaths, murders, horrible images. Eventually they are bound to take their toll, if we don’t distance ourselves from it once in awhile,’ John stated, which Sherlock seemed to consider as they proceeded to walk home — holding hands now, as Sherlock didn’t seem to be able to let go of John this time. 

* 

As they grew older, Sherlock and John — mostly John, actually — decided that it would be good to start thinking about their future. As in, retirement plans. At the moment, John was almost fifty and Sherlock was in his early-to-mid forties, and while both still had enough stamina to go running across town, chasing after criminals, this could not last forever. So decisions were made — what to do? where to do it? when? — and soon their plans were becoming more concrete. On Sherlock’s fortieth birthday, Mycroft had given him the keys to the family summer cottage in Buckinghamshire — they’d agreed that Mycroft was to keep the summer house in Poole to himself. Initially, Sherlock had rolled his eyes, saying he wanted nothing to do with that horrible place, which was actually a lovely two-storey cottage with a beautiful garden and an impressive backyard. John had accepted the present on his behalf and convinced him that maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to have a place of retreat in the countryside. Later on, they decided upon moving there once they reached retirement, and John would read and tend the gardens, while Sherlock kept his bees. 

And as they embarked their train towards their retreat, John felt an immense relief in knowing there was a place they could go and rest without being disturbed. 

They sat on their table seats, and John took out his book. Sherlock himself was fiddling with his mobile, texting, possibly, and pressing his legs against John’s under the table. John looked over at him and smiled, then focused on the novel he was reading. 

They spent most of the train ride in silence, except when John made Sherlock eat something. When they got to the station, Sherlock told John he didn’t want to rent a car, so they went over to hail a cab. 

Address given, John sat back, shoulder pressed against Sherlock’s, and placed a hand on his knee. 

‘Tired?’ he asked. Sherlock shrugged. 

‘Hm, no. Are you?’ John shook his head and sighed. 

‘No, I’m glad we’re here. We haven’t been for ages.’ 

‘The caretaker got everything ready,’ Sherlock mentioned. ‘Mycroft texted me this morning.’ John smiled. 

‘Good. So there’s food and all?’ 

With a nod, Sherlock fell silent, picking his phone again from his pocket. He then proceeded to turn it off and place it back to where it was. ‘You want peace this weekend, so no mobiles, yes?’ 

John smiled widely and nodded, leaning up to place a gentle kiss on Sherlock’s cheek. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered and Sherlock smiled back. 

*

John left their bags in the foyer to look around the house. He still hadn’t got used to it, but it was nice having a place to call home-away-from-home. Sherlock himself had gone into the sitting room and thrown himself in the sofa. John chuckled at the sight and moved over there to join him. He perched himself on the arm of the sofa and touched Sherlock’s foot.

‘What do you want to do now, then?’ he asked. There was a glint in Sherlock’s eye. 

‘You,’ he said teasingly and John chuckled, then slid to the seat of the sofa, resting Sherlock’s feet on his lap. John slowly removed his partner’s shoes and socks, and gently massaged his big, bony feet, instigating lovely moans from him. ‘That’s nice,’ Sherlock mumbled through one of his moans. He had very sensitive feet, and it was easy to make him feel pleasure through one simple massage. 

‘Yes, is it,’ John grinned, pressing a firm thumb on Sherlock’s heel. Another moan. God, John loved getting these sounds out of Sherlock. ‘Let’s just rest for now, yeah?’ Sherlock hummed in agreement. John continued to massage his feet lovingly, until he felt noticed Sherlock’s breathing deepen as he fell asleep. With a hearty chuckle, John got up and moved to the kitchen to make himself some tea and check the pantry. After that, he took their luggage upstairs to their bedroom. 

The bedroom was… majestic was really the only word that came to mind. But not in a royal sort of way. It was simple, really, but grand at the same time. All the furniture was clearly made from very expensive wood, mahogany and walnut. There was a wardrobe — a bloody wardrobe! John had always thought he’d find Narnia if he decided to wander through it — in the far end of the room, next to the door of their en suite bathroom. By the entrance there was a fine, sturdy dresser with four large drawers, and by the large window with a beautiful view of the back gardens, there was a magnificent — John recalled Sherlock calling it “Brobdingnagian” with a tiny smirk — desk where Sherlock kept a few books and papers. At the very centre of the room, its head pushed against the wall, there was a king-sized Brazilian rosewood four poster bed, surrounded by the most beautiful dark green velvet. The bed itself was neatly made, the sheets most likely Egyptian cotton, and also dark green. The pillows were cream-coloured with a faint green pattern and there were four of them. 

John smiled at the sight before him, even though this amount of opulence left him a bit uncomfortable. He had to admit that it was quite beautiful and, having slept on that massive bed before, he could attest to its comfort. He placed his and Sherlock’s bags by the wardrobe — _wardrobe!_ — and decided to take a shower. 

The bathroom was just as beautiful as any other part of the house — although the bedroom was really the only one that majestically decorated. The double-sink was made of marble — and somehow John could see _Mycroft_ written all over that — and there was a large mirror above it. The faucets were bronze, as was the bathtub bannister. The bathtub in itself was a sight to behold. Grand, thick and deep, it could hold both Sherlock and John comfortably — there had been many experiments to prove that hypothesis. John smiled when he noticed the two fluffy towels placed on the railing. The caretaker and his wife were incredibly nice, and they always made sure everything was nice and tidy before anyone came to house. It was a right shame John and Sherlock couldn’t go often. 

John took a relaxing shower on the not-so-large-and-yet-bigger-than-his-own shower, deciding against a bath just now. He checked his watch and noticed it was almost dinner time, so he got dressed — jeans, a T-shirt and slippers, since the heating system made the house feel comfortably warm — and went back downstairs to prepare something for them to eat. 

When he reached the sitting room to check up on Sherlock, he found his partner still lying as he had left him, mouth slightly ajar, snoring ever-so-slightly. The sight made John’s heart flutter as he made his way to the kitchen silently. 

The rest of the evening was spent as lazily as possible, with a few exchange of kisses with the promise of something more, though not just now, and the well-deserved rest. Sherlock woke up fuzzy and warm, they had dinner and talked about nothing in particular — something Sherlock only ever did with John, because he abhorred the idea of small talk — then watched some more telly — a sci-fi film Sherlock never bothered to care about as he rested his heavy head on John’s lap and smiled as his partner’s fingers ran mindlessly through his curls. A couple of hours later, they retreated to the bedroom, where they changed into their pyjamas and snuggled under the warm sheets and duvet. The extra pillow proved to be an excellent mean of comfort because within minutes, and a little help from their joined body heat, both Sherlock and John were fast asleep, both clinging to one another as slumber took them away. 

* 

The next day was the laziest, least bored Sherlock had ever been. John was happy about that, because he loved Sherlock’s relaxed-and-content face more than anything. 

They walked around the back gardens aimlessly, just getting to know their surroundings, then walked back in to have brunch — John prepared some eggs, pancakes and bacon, and Sherlock ate everything — and then walked out of the house to have a wander about the small town. 

After a few hours of walking hand-in-hand, in their trademarked companionable silence, they stopped to have tea at a lovely local coffee shop. It was nice not doing anything just for the sake of it. John felt himself relaxing, and he knew Sherlock himself was breathing more lightly than he had in a while. The gruesome cases eventually took their toll, and they could get lost in all that darkness if they didn’t stop for a bit to smell the roses. John didn’t want their lives to slip through their fingers as they worried about crime and violence. 

Sherlock smiled at him over his cup of Earl Grey, and John found himself smiling back instantly. Their fingers were twined and their legs were brushing against each other. A silent, comfortable promise. 

*

Sherlock closed the door behind them and leaned against it. John turned to face him and smiled. 

‘Hi,’ he said. Sherlock grinned. 

‘Hello.’ He moved forward and ran a hand through John’s neck. John pressed against the touch, feeling the skin underneath Sherlock’s fingers burn with desire. He met Sherlock’s eyes, they were dark and heavy with want. John leaned upwards and joined their lips, chastely at first, but growing more impatient on Sherlock’s end as he gripped John’s blond hair tighter with one hand, while pulling him closer by the waist with the other. John threw his hands around Sherlock’s neck, one playing with the curls on the nape, while the other was busy grasping all the hair it would find. 

Sherlock’s tongue pressed itself against John’s lips, and he let it in, the contact sending electricity down his spine and warmth pooling on his groin. John smiled at sensation of Sherlock’s soft lips against his, as he always did, marvelling at this beautiful man holding him. 

‘Bed,’ Sherlock said through kisses — his lips were down making their way towards John’s jaw, pressing soft kisses, then biting ever-so-slightly, then leaving delightful love bites that would linger for a few days. He nipped on John’s earlobe, earning himself delicious moans of pleasure. 

They somehow managed to climb the stairs without pulling apart. All John knew as they reached the bedroom door was that he had lost his jumper, shirt and shoes along the way, and that Sherlock was similarly shirtless, albeit still wearing one of his socks. They quickly took care of that, moving rapidly to the bed, where Sherlock spread himself atop John, their chests touching, hands roaming eagerly. John didn’t know where he ended and Sherlock began anymore, all he knew was that this felt too good and he needed more. Grinding himself upwards, John got his point across and Sherlock fumbled with their belts, ridding both of them of their trousers and pants. 

They were both quite hard at this point and were unlikely to last much longer. John kissed Sherlock’s neck with gusto, tasting it as if he hadn’t done that a hundred times before. Every time there something knew to learn about that soft, marble skin, the different, lovely sounds Sherlock made as John’s tongue ran through his clavicle, or when he nipped at his nape slightly, then suckled at the base of his neck, where it met the shoulder. And Sherlock himself leaned back, allowing more room for John to explore, every time, as if it were their first. 

Then it was Sherlock’s turn to explore, he licked his way down John’s neck, mouthing the scar on his shoulder as if it were precious. And it was. Sherlock felt sentimental towards it — without it, he never would have met John, and for that he was thankful — so he kissed the scar chastely, just a press of lips, contradictory to the savagery with which he was conducting his current exploration. 

Sherlock mouthed, kissed, licked and sucked down John’s chest, his nipples, abdomen, navel, and found what he was looking for. He pressed a gentle kiss on John’s inner thigh before taking him into his mouth with a hum. John moaned loudly as Sherlock twisted his tongue _just so_ , and sucked slightly. Another moan, louder this time, and John gripped Sherlock’s — now ferociously wild — curls with one hand while grasping the bedsheets underneath them with the other. His eyes were wide as he stared at the marvellously erotic scene. 

‘Sherlock, I’m—‘ John was going to say, tugging at Sherlock’s curls, but Sherlock shook his head vaguely, continuing to suck at John as if his life depended on it. Sherlock could feel John tightening and a moment later he came with a grunt and then a cry, lying limply, looking utterly debauched, as Sherlock swallowed, smiling fondly. John looked up and smiled back, mustering the courage past his post-orgasmic haze to sit up and pull Sherlock towards him, trapping him in a messy kiss — he loved to taste himself in Sherlock’s tongue, even though he never did before with previous parters — and moved his hand to touch Sherlock’s own fully erected and leaking penis. 

He stroked gently as their lips made a mess of each other. Sherlock moaned and moaned into John’s mouth as his stroked grew more rapid. Sherlock’s nails scratched John’s back as he held on to dear life, and leaning with head back with a cry, he came all over his and John’s stomachs, then dropping hazily atop John, who smiled gently at him and ran his hand through his back. 

‘I love you,’ John whispered. Sherlock kissed his neck lightly, humming as he nodded. With a chuckle, John bent to grab the flannel from the bedside table and proceeded to clean them up. He was always more awake after sex than Sherlock anyway, so he thought he might as well use his time smartly.

He covered himself and Sherlock with the duvet seeing as they would be sleeping in the nude that night, and placed a fond kiss on his partner’s cheek, snuggling up against him and nuzzling at his neck. Sherlock smiled and threw an arm around John’s waist, and they fell asleep in a tangle of limbs. 

* 

The next morning found John blinking lazily at the faint light coming from the window. His head was resting on Sherlock’s chest, so he looked up to find his partner staring at him lovingly. 

‘Morning,’ John greeted, voice hoarse from the previous night’s activities. 

Sherlock grinned. ‘I love you, too,’ he said. John’s smile grew wider. 

‘Good,’ John chuckled. Sherlock chuckled as well, so John closed his eyes and, lulled by the steady heartbeat and slight rumble of laughter underneath him, he fell asleep once more, peacefully and guiltlessly.


End file.
